Rockabye
by lucindadixon
Summary: "Your stomach flips over and you feel a wave of pleasure wash over you. KB. That's you. Extraordinary. That's…not at all how you see yourself. He thinks you're extraordinary?" In which I play with a scene from When the Bough Breaks. Castle/Beckett


**A/N: Just dipping my toe into a new fandom to see if I can pull it off. I hope you enjoy :) And also? I don't own _Castle_.**

* * *

**Rockabye**

The paparazzi are everywhere, coming at you from every direction, jumping out at you from behind potted plants and lampposts. Okay, not really, but they might as well be; that's how jittery they're making you, and right now you're kind of wishing you had brought your gun. Bright flashes go off in your face like fireworks and you just know that you're going to be squinting like Mr. Magoo in every goddamned picture.

Taking a deep breath and fighting down the panicky, claustrophobic feeling these occasional ventures into Castle's territory always bring about, you search the crowd for someone you know. Castle is way over on the other side of the room and you shoot him a dirty look just on general principle. Nobody ever wanted to take your picture before he came along. With relief, your eyes then land on Captain Montgomery and you so start in his direction immediately, ignoring the wolf whistles and shouted cries of "Nikki, Nikki, look this way!" that follow you across the room.

"You clean up nice, detective," Montgomery notes when he sees you, giving you an appreciative once over. It could be a creepy thing, these words coming from your boss, but it's not. Montgomery is your friend; he's safe, someone you can trust to not take the compliments too far.

"Thank you, sir," you say, accepting the comment in the spirit in which it was intended.

"Castle is going to be happy to see you. Have you read the dedication?" he asks and you pause, trying to remember whether there had been a dedication page in the copy Castle had provided for you. You don't believe there was.

"No. What did it say?"

The captain gives you a knowing look and indicates a display of books. "Go see for yourself. Excuse me," he adds, before walking off and leaving you alone again.

Taking his advice, you approach the display, telling yourself it's mostly about giving yourself something to do other than standing there looking like a friendless loser. You're not _that_ curious about the dedication. You pick up a book at random and, without conscious intent, flip it over. And there he is: Castle with his crooked little half smile, looking up at you from the glossy jacket of the book. With a combination of annoyance and fondness, you remember the Great Book Jacket Picture Debate from earlier in the year. It pleases you that, in the end, he went with your first choice. He's trying to look serious, but there's a tiny little twinkle in his eye in this particular shot that gives the impression he was laughing just moments before. Knowing him, he probably was.

You smile to yourself and open the book, flipping through the first couple of introductory pages until you find the dedication, alone on a page in plain bold font.

_''_**To the extraordinary KB and all my friends at the 12th**."

Your stomach flips over and you feel a wave of pleasure wash over you. KB. That's you. Extraordinary. That's…not at all how you see yourself. He thinks you're extraordinary?

And just as the question forms in your mind, before you have time to convince yourself that he's wrong, or worse, insincere, he appears beside you.

"Hey."

You're caught off guard and the words that tumble from your lips are not really adequate to convey your feelings in this moment. You're usually more eloquent. Looking up, you pass him the book and smile awkwardly.

"Hey, I...I was just uh, the dedication. Wow. Thank you."

He looks incredible and smells even better. You forget sometimes just how attractive a man he is. Odd, as he certainly reminds you often enough, but after all this time he's mostly blended into the fabric of your life. You don't truly see him most of the time; he just is. Which make moments like these, when you suddenly _do_ see him, all the more devastating. It always happens when you least expect it: at a crime scene, when you're interviewing a suspect, when he cracks a joke to break the tension on a rough day, when you're _mad_ at him. Or sometimes, like now, when he makes your importance to him clear. He stops being your plucky sidekick, your annoying kid brother or the bane of your existence and becomes a man. A strong, smart, attractive man and you're at a loss to explain why in hell you haven't taken him to bed yet.

"I meant it," he says in a tone that brooks no argument. "You are extraordinary." His eyes lock onto yours as he continues. "Listen. I was thinking..."

Your breath catches in your throat and you know without doubt you're about to agree to something monumentally stupid. And you don't care. At all.

"What if the wife caught on to the affair?"

You blink. If this was television or a movie, and your life had a soundtrack, the romantic music playing in the background would have come to a screeching halt, a needle dragging across vinyl.

"Melissa Talbot? A killer?" you ask, thankfully catching on to what he's saying quickly enough that he doesn't notice anything remiss.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

"Well, ah, anything is possible. I didn't see it that way," you say, not adding that you still don't.

"You're just saying that 'cause you've never been scorned."

"What makes you say that?"

"Come on, what man has ever turned you away?" he says, amusement colouring his tone.

Hmm, let's just think about that for a minute_,_ you think but don't say. Oblivious. He's completely oblivious.

"So, any word on a certain British secret agent who shall not be named?" Your choice of question speaks to your desperation to change the subject and as soon as you say it you wish you'd come up with something else.

He glances around and puts his finger to his lips, requesting discretion. "I got the official offer."

Your heart sinks, but what else can you say? "Wow! Congratulations."

"I haven't accepted it yet."

Relief floods you, just for a second, until you glimpse the uncertainty on his face. "But you're going to, aren't you?"

"What, you think I should?"

Your whole body screams _no_, but of course you can't say that. This is a dream come true for him. "Yeah," you begin. "I mean, is there a reason why you wouldn't?" You're fishing and you know it. It's embarrassing.

"So you'd be okay if I didn't write another Nikki Heat?"

You laugh. This is so not about Nikki Heat. "I mean, why wouldn't I? It's not like I asked you to write the first one."

His eyes narrow and you know you've offended him. "You know, a lot of people would be flattered that someone chose to write a book based on them."

"Flattered?" you ask, incredulous. Oh, this is rich. He comes bursting into your world uninvited, horns his way into places he has no right to be, makes you feel things you don't want to feel, and makes your life so much harder even when he's making it easier, and you're supposed to be flattered?

"Yeah."

"Do you have any idea how much grief I've had to put up with over this Nikki Heat thing?" you demand.

"Gee, I'm sorry," he says in a way that indicates he's not sorry in the least.

And on it continues in that vein, childish annoyed sniping, that you participate in without even listening to. How did this night go so far off the rails? He hasn't complimented you on your dress or stared at your cleavage. You haven't congratulated him on the turnout for the party.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

* * *

Later, you're in bed, drowsy but not yet asleep, when the knocking begins. It's tentative at first, as though your visitor is unsure whether he wants the door to be answered at all. But in the time it takes that thought to pass through your mind, the volume of the raps increases to the point where you figure you'd better get up and open the door before one of your neighbors does it for you.

Covering the distance from your bed to the front door in a few seconds, you pull open the door without bothering to look first. It's not like there's any doubt in your mind who it is.

"What is it, Castle?" you demand, one hand on your hip, the other still on the doorknob.

He doesn't wait for an invitation, just pushes his way past you until he's standing in the middle of your living room.

"Won't you come in," you invite sarcastically, closing the door behind him. "What the hell?"

"What did you think I was going to say?" he asks.

"Um… 'Hi Beckett. Can I come in? Sorry to stop by so late…'" you suggest, confused.

"Not now," he clarifies. "Before. At the party. What did you think I was going to say, right before I suggested we take a look at the wife? Because that wasn't it."

"What wasn't it?" You must be even more tired than you thought, because you're really not following him here at all.

"What you thought I was going to say."

Oh. Damn. It's coming back to you. The dedication. The brief moment where you thought he might be about to suggest…something.

"Nothing. I don't know. I don't remember."

He's standing very close to you now and you're not really sure how that happened, or why you're not backing up or pushing him away or something. You're suddenly very conscious of the fact that he's still in a suit while you're clothed only in the little fleece shorts and thin cotton cami you wore to bed.

"You remember."

"No, I really don't. What are you doing here, Castle?" What should have come out as an annoyed demand sounds instead like a breathless invitation and you curse yourself silently.

"To see how you liked the dedication. You liked the dedication, right Kate?" He's lifted one hand and is toying with the ends of your hair.

"I, ah, I already thanked you for that," you stammer. "It was really…nice…of you."

"It was, wasn't it? I'm a nice guy." His other hand is on your hip now and one would be hard pressed to fit a copy of _Heat Wave_ between the two of you. "Did you remember yet?"

"Hmm?" You've lost track of the conversation again, distracted by the feel of his fingers dancing across your hip bone.

"What you thought I was going to say. You were disappointed, and you were pissed off that you were disappointed and so you picked a fight. You should be proud of me; it took me awhile to work that out, but I did it. All by myself. I don't like fighting with you, Kate. I want to know what happened. What did you think I was going to say?"

You exhale. You should just say it. So you do. "I thought you were going to ask me out. On a date."

For a moment, you've done the impossible. You've rendered the legendarily loquacious Richard Castle speechless. But then, a huge grin spreads across his face. "Oh. Well in that case…" He leans in and presses his lips, too lightly and all too briefly, to yours. "I'll pick you up tomorrow. Seven o'clock. You better get back to bed; you're going to need your sleep."

He's out the door again before you've even processed what has just occurred. You stand in your living room, alone and bewildered for a solid minute before you decide his advice is sound and head back to bed.

You fall asleep and dream of things to come. They are very, very good dreams.


End file.
